Category: cybersex

Men sit in their huge air-conditioned offices, lock the door, loosen their ties and laze back on their big black leather chairs.

They phone women. Maybe their girlfriend, their wife or their friend with virtual benefits.

Unless they’re phoning a hooker, chances of the woman being home alone in her underwear are pretty much zero. She’s either at work in her own non air-conditioned office, running around with the kids, buying groceries, filling the fridge, doing homework, walking dogs, hanging pictures, loading the dishwasher or plucking granadillas.

Or doing all of the above at the same time.

Right now I’m in a queue waiting to buy text books. School starts tomorrow and I have no idea why I didn’t do this earlier.

There are at least 200 other last minute mothers in the queue with me.

My phone keeps ringing. It’s him, my friend with the pink couch.

‘Hey Violet, I miss you. Let’s play around…’

He doesn’t mean on the couch. He means on the phone.

I’ve whispered to him, more than once, that ‘I cannot talk right now.’

The whispers have clearly turned him on. We’ve had a few texts back and forth, but THIS IS NOT A GOOD TIME FOR ME.

‘Call me the minute you get home,’ he says.

I don’t phone immediately as I have to unpack the groceries, hang up washing, fold laundry, keep replying to his texts, water the garden, write a story, do a bit more work, vacuum, feed the homeless, bake a cake, make dinner and change the sheets.

But then I do phone him.

Late at night. When finally it’s quiet and I want to and I’m ready and I’ve kinda been waiting for this all day.

I have high sex standards. I would have sex in a cemetery but not in a hospital.

Unless the doctor was irresistible, in which case I could be swayed.

I would not have sex in a public bathroom but I would have sex in the bathroom at a dinner party.

Everybody would. Everybody does.

I love the idea of sex in the dressing room of an upmarket boutique. And in the dressing room of a lingerie shop. Being fucked, pushed back up against the wall, watching in the mirror. Then walking out the store with a bag filled with French underwear.

Perfect.

I would not have sex in the dessert aisle of a supermarket.

But I have had sex in the cheese section of Pick n Pay. I lie. I had a date in the cheese section and the date was a disaster but the cheese was good.

I would not have sex in a synagogue. But I would have sex in a church so I am not sure what that says about me and my double standards and I guess I need to take a good long hard look at myself.

I would have sex in the headmaster’s office of a private boys’ school.

I would have sex at a wedding.

And I love sex in luxury hotels. The idea of the king size bed, bubble baths, champagne on ice and a butler. Bring it on.

On my hands and knees on the pink leather art deco couch of the man I’m quite fond of? Yip.

I have a friend – she’s fifty, single, sexy and extremely rich. She lives on lettuce leaves, uses botox, whitens her teeth, has perfect hair, a private gym instructor, wears heels, and fucks men for money. She gives great blow jobs, and in return, she makes sure that her ‘men’ give her everything that she could possibly want. She’s a high class hooker and I am highly bloody jealous. I would kill to have the kind of money she has.

But I would not be very good at sex work. My sexual encounters are generally disastrous. If I give someone a massage, I find myself allergic to the oil. I look pathetic tottering about in heels and my stockings are always laddered. I’m scared of injections so wouldn’t botox, too lazy to brush my hair, and I’ve never given a decent blow job in my life. In fact, my last sexual encounter landed up with the guy losing his tooth while opening a condom and crawling around the floor, naked, desperately looking for it.

Sex work was not an option for me to make extra money. But sex writing was. And so I applied to write for a new raunchy magazine – ‘Tantric Touch’. I got the job!

Violet Online was soon going to be called Tantric Violet. My first assignment: Sensual Sanctuaries in the City. Thinking of the dresses I could buy with my first paycheck, I plunged myself into internet research. God I had fun. Amazing sites for Tantric Sex. Amazing pictures of Tantric Sex. Amazingly, I wanted to have Tantric Sex. But then I remembered that this was work and I was on a deadline. So getting serious, I googled a little more, finding the mysterious sounding ‘’Bhoga Sexual Sanctuary’.

Bhoga means ‘Sexual enjoyment’. I was on the right path. In the name of research, I booked myself a Sexual Energy Massage with Tantric Master Floating Eagle. Floating Eagle was charming, tall, toned and definitely naked under his loose orange robe. He handed me my own robe and said “Don’t be shy. Take it all off”.

We sat opposite one another on our yoga mats, legs in lotus position, hands in prayer position. He chanted about honoring my mind, body and spirit, and told me the only thing expected of me was to ‘surrender into bliss.’ That didn’t sound so difficult. I can do bliss quite easily. I disrobed, pretending it was completely natural to be naked in front of an orange robed floating eagle. The room was quiet, apart from his chants and tantric breathing. I focused for all it was worth on the Bliss yet to come. I kept my eyes firmly closed and avoided glancing down at his floating eagle, which I have to say, seemed set to soar at any minute.

Floating Eagle’s breathing got louder and louder. Pleasurable sounds. Intense. Animalistic. Sex sounds. I started making sounds too. Mine started softly but slowly, coming from the bottom of my Yoni, up through my sensual feminine waters, and out through my mouth, where they became huge full blooded hysterical guffaws. My sounds were not sounds of sexual pleasure.

Floating Eagle was not amused. He stared at me while I dissolved into fits of laughter that only ended when I stooped to pick up my clothes from the pavement outside the Sanctuary. I dressed in the car, pulled up my laddered stockings, then called my Tantric Touch Boss.

“Don’t bother coming back. If you want to work for us, you need to put your full heart and Yoni into the stories”. I wish I had put my whole Yoni into that story. Even with all the intense research I did, I never got paid never had a Tantric Massage. I never learned how to give a decent blow job. And I still don’t have any money.

It’s as hard quitting scrabble as it is quitting heroin. I went back to playing and met Apoorva. From India. His profile pic was of his white underpants. Our game went like this: I’m here for sex, he says. Do you cyber?

It’s hot, the kids are playing monopoly, I’m lazing around in my underwear, and feel a slight tingle between my legs.

Apoorva: Okay. We’re leaving. We’re running quickly along a dark alley, towards our room. We can’t wait. I push you against a wall…

Me: No Apoorva. Wait. I don’t want to have sex with you outdoors. Let’s get to the hotel.

Apoorva: Jesus, woman, this is just cybersex, stop being so difficult.

Me: I’m not being difficult, I mean, I’m trying not to be, but i like to be wined and dined, have some romance, not so clinical you know. Let’s leave the alley. Or at least, choose a street that’s romantic, beautiful lamps posts, the ocean nearby. Maybe we can run, through this street, arm in arm, to the hotel, romantic.

Apoorva: Fine. We’re back at the hotel. Drink a glass of wine for God’s sake, then take off your clothes, lie back, open your legs.